Abject Confusion
by Zchocolatebunniesrulezworld
Summary: Mello is Matt's best friend; Matt wants her to be...well, more. But when the girl he's loved for years gets a sex change and starts dating NEAR, he's forced into some Deep Questions. Who has he loved all this time? Mello or her body? Yeah, high school AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Walking around a cemetery the other day, as you do, I froze as Mello shoved his way into my head and yelled "GIMME A SEX CHANGE, BITCH!"  
After some thought...this was born.  
I really don't know, sometimes.**

**Also, I know, I know, cliched-over-used-boring-old-high-school-AU. I thought the plot would fit better in here, seeing as Mello's a GUY in the manga when he's fifteen and HAS been for, well, his whole life ^^**

**(p.s: Matt's going to come off as rather a jerk--kind of, more like misunderstanding--right at first. It's all to allow room for character development and what-have-you!)**

**(p.p.s: And Mello's...different...right now. His Mello-ness shall intensify as we progress. ^__^)**

**(p.p.p.s: This will..._not _be updated often. School is a midget. Though reviews considerably speed up the process! I luffs you all!)**

**--  
**

Hey.

Nice to meet 'ya. Matt here. I'll be your narrator and/or guide for this (hopefully) love-ridden high school tale. See, I'm seriously in love with this chick named Mello, my best friend for nine years now. We met when I was seven (for all you lazy bums/idiots out there, that makes me sixteen): I thought she was a boy, she punched me in the face then gave me a chocolate bar so I wouldn't "tattle", and we've been inseparable ever since.

True love, huh?

Currently we're holed up in my dingy old basement (under the pretense of studying for some dumb science test on Monday--we don't need to study, genii as we are. What? Pretentious? That's just the truth. Deal.) and I'm kicking her ass at Super Smash Bros. She, sprawled across the grungy old couch (avoiding the mysterious stains); I, on my stomach on the scratchy old carpet.

(My family tends to describe anything involving our basement as 'old', seeing as we dump all our crap in here instead of taking care of it properly like normal people do. Excuse the lack of adjective-variation.)

I take a moment to observe Mello as she tries frustratedly to make Pitt fly over an obstacle. Her hair, cropped close and dyed bright pink, and her baggy T-shirt and shorts personify all that I love about her. She's just so different from all the other superficial airheads at our school. Doesn't give a damn what anyone else thinks (thank god, or she wouldn't be hanging out with a computer nerd like me), and she looks at people for their _insides _and not outward appearance (again, majorly relieved there--not many girls go for gangly guys in pink'n'black stripes like me).

All right, so fine: ours is the cliched high-school friendship of two against the world and shit, but what_ever_. I'm just so..._happy _when I'm with her; I don't care if thousands of authors have illustrated relationships like ours for time immemorial. As long as I'm next to Mello, does anybody else matter? Even _exist_?

Mello. These insane quirks she's got (more violent mood-swings _all the time_ than your normal chick once a month, which, trust me, can be pretty violent; chocolate coating her lips from the omnipresent bar in her hand, complete disregard for her appearance, and the tendency to take me completely off-guard with random requests/statements) are my favorite aspect of--

"Hey Matt, I forgot to tell you. Can't come over tomorrow, I'll be having surgery."

A thousand images flood my mind in a sickening plethora of death, those of cancer, leukemia, Alzheimer's, a broken finger, _anything_ that mars her perfection..."_WHAT?! What's wrong, Mello? Are you gonna be okay? When did you get hurt? How much chocolate do you want? Talk to me, Mells!"_

"I haven't mentioned it? Meh. Better late than never--as of tomorrow, I'll be a transgender. Gonna be a dude, dude!" A wide grin plastered over her face, but quickly fell to a scowl and she mutters, "Motherfucking _Pitt_ can't _fly straight_, the bugger. Heh. Geddit? _Fly straight? Bugger?_ I crack myself up."

"You have to keep tilting the control-stick--wait, _what did you just say?!_" That was a joke. Right? You're the objective observer, here; Mello's pulling my leg, you see that. Right?

"Something wrong with your ears?" She turns to me and, slowly and deliberately, drawls, "I'm. Getting. A. Penis. Got a problem?"

"I, um...are you kidding me, Mello? You don't...I mean, you're not..."

Look, I'm not homophobic--I know Mello's bisexual, and I'm cool with that (that immature hormone-filled teenage mind of mine can't get the image of her kissing Amane Misa, hottest--and most annoying--girl in our class, off its retinas. Not that I'm complaining, incidentally.), but remember the whole 'in-love-with-chick-who-is-best-friend' issue? Yeah. I'm straight.

If Mello had been a guy at the beginning of our friendship, I wouldn't be in love with her. Say what you want, judge me or whatever, but what can I say? Don't _you_ have friends of your gender--or, if you happen to be homosexual, the opposite? Do you feel any physical attraction to them at all? Well, now *change* the sex of friend in question--*now* how do you feel?

What?!

Shut up. We're different, okay?

And yeah, I get that this is more than a question of sexual orientation--sometimes that doesn't even enter into the mix, right? Gender identity is the whole biz here?--but I don't know how to deal with any of that. How long has Mello wanted to be a guy? When I've thought about kissing her, has _she_ been thinking of...I dunno...

"Hey you bastard! Spit it the fuck out!" Mello hates when people trail off or don't finish their sentences. That doesn't stop her from interrupting whenever she wants to butt in, though.

I turn to look at her. (Should I still call her _her_?) "I don't know what to say, Mello. I mean, I'm not gonna start, like, hating you or anything--of course you're still my best friend--but..." How to phrase these next words? She has no idea I've fallen head-over-heels for her! What do I say here?

...Jeez, if I'd known Mello'd make a comment like this today, I'd've waited to invite you here 'till like a year from now. Normally I'm much more composed and I'm sure you wouldn't be making all these snarky comments.

"Are you sure you want to do this? I've _never _thought of you as someone who's uncomfortable with their identity." Yeah, not a _total _jerk here, am I? 'Course I care about Mello; she's been my friend longer than my crush. "Jeez, Mello, you hit me when we met 'cause I thought you _were_ a boy!"

She sighs, which rather frightens me, actually. This sounds rather _too_ tired, _too _defeated; not like the Mello I know at all.

"It was that, actually, that got me thinking. 'Course I was a kid then, so I didn't really get it, but I started to wonder--what _is_ so bad about being a boy?"

Grins, now, and continues. "Back then my thought processes were more along the lines of being allowed to wallow in the mud and pick your nose in public without getting any 'EWW's because I'd be with all my guy friends, and boys are 'allowed' to do that kind of stuff. But now..."

And now I'm really afraid here. Mello seizes a rather...important area on her chest in a movement that would undoubtedly be erotic if she weren't doing it with such _disgust_, such an expression of utter _contempt_ on her face. "These--they feel like, I dunno, goddamn _tumors_ on my chest, hanging sacs of _fat. _I'll look down in the shower and want to puke, Matt--I _do_ puke, actually. And . . .

"I--can't describe it. It's just, I mean . . . oh, fuck it. I _feel_ like a boy, I have since before I met you, and I just--can't go on like this anymore, Matt; _I can't_. Thank god my parents understand. Do you?"

Oh man. Oh, oh, man. If you could see Mello's face right now...How can I say anything aside from, "Of course, Mells. D'you want me to come with you tomorrow? Be there when you wake up?" Which I say, by the way, but don't, can't _mean_.

She looks a thousand times relieved, though, which is worth the lie. I really don't know what to do, guys. I mean, look at her. She's lying on her back on the couch now, feet propped up against a pile of old books we've been meaning to donate to some charity, and has just returned to the videogame, as if the previous conversation is all but forgotten.

Yeah. Like I could forget.

I _love _her, but . . . what do I love? I thought it was just her personality I fell in love with (though of course I think she's the most beautiful thing on the planet), but with the thought of a boy-Mello, I feel nothing but fear.

I seriously understand those goths in the cafeteria corner now, muttering away to themselves about how much life sucks.

--

The weather doesn't really reflect my mood all that well. Lush green trees of the beginning of September surround the building, only one or two puffy clouds sail across the cerulean sky, and the sun could practically have that cliched smiley-face plastered on it for the utter incongruity of the scene.

_Well, _I think, staring up at the hospital building in which my best friend is probably about to wake up, _this is it. Mello's a guy now. How effed up is that?_

All right, you're right. I'd rather have her happy than not, and if that means giving her up as a _girl_friend to keep her as a _friend_ . . . of course I'll do it.

It's hard, though, to accept.

"Excuse me? Young man, you've been standing here for fifteen minutes now. Coming to see someone?" A middle-aged guy walks up to me and pushes the black hair away from his square glasses. Suit-wearing and uptight. He probably works here and I'm getting in the way, but some serious conservative is exactly what I want right now.

"I--yeah. My best friend's in there," I start, waving around the bouquet I brought for her as emphasis. "I'm Matt."

"Teru Mikami," the guy sticks out his hand to shake while introducing himself--Japanese, I realize, and shake his hand. "My . . . _boss_ works here as one of the surgeons."

Oh. "So you're an intern?" Maybe Teru's boss operated on Mello. That would be a conversation-starter, for sure.

"Yes. Why aren't you going inside, though?" At the look on my face, he blinks. "Why is your friend here?"

The story spills out in an unconnected string of babble--everything I've told you and more. Soon I'm walking into the visitors' waiting room with Teru's verbal barrage at my left ear, supporting me and keeping me sitting in this chair. Turns out Mello's operation took longer than expected, and, weirdly enough, her--his?--surgeon actually _is _Teru's boss. Teru, who, by the way, is about as far from a serious conservative as you could get, despite his appearance.

Poor Teru. He totally understands the whole unrequited-love thing I've got going, having the major hots for his boss, this Raito guy, himself. Raito only acknowledges him to order him around, though, so I'm one-upping him on the interaction account. Raito isn't in the middle of becoming Rait_a, _however, so I think I've got more grounds for being depressed than Teru does.

Oh god, they're calling my name. Mello's been out for a few hours now but she's just woken up. Wait--right. _He _just woke up. Wow-that's-weird.

Shouldering the bouquet like a bayonet, I stride into the room where my best friend is lying in a miscellaneous hospital bed. It feels more like s--he's a POW in the middle of enemy territory, though.

Wish me luck.


	2. Chapter 2

**Eet ees unheard of! That user, _right there_, zchocolatebunniesrulezworld, actually sent review replies! Normally she just tacks them onto the bottom of the next update 'cos she's a lazy byotch, but--excuse her lack of the English language--O. M. G.  
So just a shorty midget-interlude here. I love all of you reviewers, fav'ers, and alerters just to bursting ^_________^**

**--  
**

Nice color, white. Gender-equal. Neutral. Doesn't make assumptions, is totally blank and unfeeling, calming and unnerving at the same time. It makes sense, then that this room's totally comprised of that snowy hue. Bleached the color out of everything, including most of its occupants.

Mello's flamingo-colored hair stands out, therefore, quite starkly.

You should see it. Seriously, compared to all the other pale dude(tte)s reclining carefully on their uncomfortable-looking cots, Mello's the picture of vivaciousness.

Which she always is, of course.

He, I mean.

What else is going to change, aside from Mello's gender? He's going to have to take horomones somehow, right? Testosterone?

I've been doing some research, actually, and apparently Mello's been taking them for months, and going through extensive psychoanalyzing and therapy and everything! How the heck could I have not noticed? Why didn't she _tell_ me? Aren't we friends? We are, right? I'm _here_, aren't I? I'm supporting him, right? Not many people would do what I'm doing.

Well, not that I'm doing it willingly, but he doesn't know that.

No, no, I'm here of my own accord--I just hate it. _Hate_ it; hate _him_. Did Mello really have no idea what I felt for her before? Did she even _think_ about me when she decided to do this? She didn't even bother to _tell_ me. I'm her best friend! Don't you tell your best friends something as monumental as this?

When I catch Mello's eyes, however, I instantly feel like the selfish, greedy prick I am.

He's covered by a sheet--white, of course--so I can only see his face, but it's enough. I could pursue a career as a poet just to attempt to describe it to you, but not being particularly eloquent, I'll settle for telling you about the ecstatic joy oozing out of her every facial pore.

That sounds kinda gross. Blame the videogames.

Oh, _fuck_, and HIS every facial pore. I've got to stop doing that; Mello's a _boy_ now (god, that sounds weird).

But yeah, you guys don't care about my inner angsting, do you? You want to see what's happening with my best friend. Oh jeez, now he's _only _my friend--no chance for anything else . . . is there anybody else out there that I'll ever love like I loved her? Is the only girl I can ever be with now, well, dead? How do I classify that, anyway? The Mello _I_ knew is dead . . .

Oh, right. Enough.

Looks like Mello's as impatient as you are, judging by her--_his_, goddamnit--glare and hoarse call of, "Oh, no, don't look that ecstatic, Matty. This _really_ isn't the best thing that's ever happened to me, dude."

Well, I guess I do look pretty shocked. Sure, just looking at his face doesn't really cue me in; it's only because I've spent so many hours staring at her that I can see the slightly heavier cheekbones and the thicker eyebrows (still thin by most standards) that mark the past few hours of Mello's life.

What kind of person will Mello be now? He's getting testosterone pumped into him (pretty sure via pills--almost like taking Viagra. Ha. I wish . . . but don't, now? 'Cos he's a boy? Um, shutting up now?), will it change her nature? How much of being a boy is based on physically _being_ a boy?

Oh, right. Mello looks really pissed now.

(Phewph--same old impatient, moody demeanor)

"All right, all right; _sorry_ for being slightly surprised, Mello. I'm entitled to a bit of stupidity, here." I walk over to the bed, where he's now hoisted himself up slowly and is leaning back on the headboard (I try not to notice the lack of . . . well, _anything_ on his hospital-gown-clad chest).

"Yeah, whatever. Those flowers for me?"

"No, they're for my _other_ best friend who just had surgery. I'm just bothering you waiting for him to wake up." I roll my eyes.

"Shut up and give 'em here." He makes a weak attempt at a grab for them and I realize he's actually pretty beat from the surgery. I toss him the roses and, as his hand is still held out expectantly, I remember what else I brought him.

"Okay, okay, sheesh." I tug out a day's supply of chocolate bars from my various vest pockets (in case you were wondering: eight, when Mello's fasting). "They said I couldn't bring you anything to eat, you know."

He tears the silver wrapper partway off and rolls his eyes at me before snapping off a chunk reverently. "Uh-huh. They've got me on a crapola diet. Something about the imminent death posed by my blood sugar level. Freaks."

"You--Mello, give those back here! Would you seriously risk your health for that stupid addiction?" Long-standing joe, calling it that. Her hands actually _shake_ without a bar in them. I wonder how exactly her parents managed to screw up so badly . . . don't get me wrong, of course she's perfect, but by _my_ standards, remember, which are rather skewed.

"I don't care." Mello shrugs. "I've been fine for sixteen years; now I'm even better, and they want me to _worry_? About _chocolate_? Don't think so." To emphasize his point, he cracks off another corner before I grab the bar out of his hands. "Hey!"

"Nope," I declare, collecting the rest of the sweets and stuffing them back into my vest pockets. "Honestly, Mello, I can't believe you'd defy professional orders for _chocolate_."

"You don't understand, Matty." _(I hate that pet name. That's probably why he's using it.)_ "Anyway, this guy's hardly professional. He looks like a goddamn teenage wannabe model and acted like . . . like white chocolate truffles. Pretty exterior, but actually a complete, _disgusting phony._"

(Do you think it's normal for him to act so passionate over this, in his words, "faux-chocolate controversy"? Whatever.)

Huh . . . so that's the Raito Teru stalks-loves? Each to his own, I guess.

We chat for a while before I leave to give Mello's parents, who arrive after about an hour, some time alone with him. Teru obviously had to go back to work but he nods at me while walking briskly down a corridor, talking to some guy who looks _way_ too young to be his boss, let alone his _crush _(but as I said. Each. Own).

But, wait! What? You care enough to ask? Well, speaking of "crush", when I finally get out of that hospital, it feels like a giant Snorlax woke up and rolled off of my shoulders, on which it had been sitting for the entire duration of my visit.

Naw, it wasn't as bad as I thought it'd be, mainly because I've perfected the art of separating Friend-Mello from Fills-Me-To-Bursting-With-Unrequited-Love-Mello in my mind. I don't give a shit if Friend-Mello is a guy or a girl, and--erm, I haven't been and _really_ don't want to start thinking about Fills-Me-To-Bursting-With-Unrequited-Love-Mello right now, thank you.

So he'll be in school on Monday, and that'll be when the real party starts. Seriously, I don't really know what to do with you guys now that he's not here. Wanna check out my home? That's where I'm going--if you don't care (which I wouldn't blame you for--honestly, without Mello, my life is a total bore) then come back in a few days when school starts again (normally I love long weekends...).

See 'ya.

Hey, thanks for sticking around! My mom's pulling up in her two-thousand-year-old car that desperately needs a new . . . umm, car. Everything's on its last wheels. Anyway, I sidle into the backseat (my parents are so paranoid they'd force me into the old carseat if I'd fit; I can't sit in the front) and she takes off.

Now, normal parents might want to know how their only son is feeling about their transvestite best friend, but mum turns driving into an insane roller coaster ride of swerving into the wrong lane, running red lights, honking furiously at innocent pedestrians, narrowly avoiding said pedestrians, narrowly avoiding a _house_; you get the idea. It's a wonder I'm alive--and have such dexterity with videogames--if I'm related to this woman. Remember how mum epitomizes paranoia? Well, this is her driving _safely._

Never mind. We're home now: wheels screeching to a stop right before the car hits my dad who just stepped out of the back door. Stumbled is really more like it--his glasses askew and torso hidden behind a huge stack of books, he can barely see where the car is, which he's heading toward to drive to the library.

Hang on--am I related to _either_ of my parents?

Oh, whatever. Thoughts of alien abduction, switching bassinets, a modern-day Moses, and the last of the Saiyans sent to earth to save my race buzz around in my head as I climb the stairs to my room.

No, you don't want to know what it looks like. Suffice to say I turn on the radio (avoiding the mysterious sticky spot that keeps growing) and flop down onto my bed (heaping my dirty clothes into a pile on the floor to make room). I could really benefit from some nice, stress-relieving Majora's Mask right now (a classic. Not as difficult as everyone makes it out to be, though) but I just can't drag myself out of bed. Actually, I have a horrible headache, too. Go away. I don't want to talk to you.

Why are you still here? Go--shoo!

..._please_.


	3. Chapter 3

**I love you all! And I have plans for this, oh yes I do...*smirks*...**

**--**

Now, being a 15-year-old boy, my inner alarm clock tends to go off around one in the afternoon on the weekends. However, for the past three days, I've been rising before the sun.

Which is _really _annoying. I just want to sleep the long weekend away 'til I can see Mello again, but _no-o-ooo_...

I've had a horrible headache all weekend, too. I think it's your fault--you make me think too much. Just stop talking, seriously; you're getting on my nerves.

Sorry for that. Just nervous, that's all.

Anyway, now it's Tuesday morning and I've just groggily dragged myself out of an M-rated dream-turned-nightmare, involving me . . . Mello . . . and chocolate . . . mmm . . . hey, don't give me those looks: I've got needs, don't I? In the middle of the dream "she" became a "he" anyway so consider that my retribution.

Okay, thanks, you've officially ruined my day. What's for breakfast?

I decide to pass Dad's attempt at cooking pancakes and grab an apple from the fridge instead, quickly dashing through the black cloud of smoke he's raised in the kitchen. Normally I scarf down half the food in the house but right now my stomach feels like a broom closet stuffed with Fuzzies.

_You don't know? _Those black puffy fluffballs in Mario games that suck out your HP? You've had seriously deprived childhoods, people.

In any case, I'm pretty sure I'd prefer multiple forms of torture over what is about to come. Funny. Last night I couldn't wait to see Mello again; now that I'm going to . . .

During this lovely musing my feet automatically plod the familiar block down to the bus stop, board the vehicle, and slide gracelessly into their seat up front. _Why_ do people sit in the back? I just want to get out of this tumultuous throng ASAP.

The bus ride is uneventful as usual, unless you want to count that spitball which narrowly avoided my eye and the bus driver swearing profusely in Turkish at a swerving car, and all too soon we're pulling up in front of the school -- s_hit_, the _school! _People here aren't exactly, erm, how do I put it nicely . . . _intelligent_ or _open-minded_--they'll tear Mello apart! It's not like she was accepted into high-school society _before _she became a man . . . shit-shit-shit.

Oh, my god. I have to get to him before they do. I don't see him anywhere! The only thing in my sight is the crushing throng of students whom I really couldn't care less about. Actually, these people may quite possibly be the psychopathic murderers of my best friend. So, yes, I do care.

I ready myself to plunge headlong into the surging mass of chatting, joking, snogging, texting _teens_. Gah, I hate them.

I'm on the verge of screaming at them to _just get the hell out of my way_ when someone drapes an arm around my shoulders and drawls a lazy hello.

All right. Phewph. Now that Mello's here, everyone else disappears and we're alone in the world.

Oh, no offense. You guys are awesome. You count, too--anybody who cares enough to listen to my sob fest has to seriously *cough-havenolife-cough* care about other people.

I turn to Mello to warn him of his impending doom by high school vultures--and jump about a foot into the air while barely suppressing a girlish scream of shock.

Why? Well, let me explain to you what exactly Mello has been wearing for the past nine years of her life: whatever she digs out of her closet, all clothes in which were bought in the men's area of a secondhand store. This usually consists of a huge T-shirt and baggy sweatpants along with signature floppy sneakers.

That's the Mello I love. Girls at this school constantly fret over their appearance and what everyone else thinks about their clothes, but she didn't give a damn, you see? I bet even you, awesome as you are, care at least in the slightest. Mello didn't.

Now that you know that, you should see this. Close your eyes for a minute--wait, that won't work, will it?--try to imagine:

Leather. Tight, form-fitting, midnight and shiny leather covering about half of his body and leaving _nothing_ to the imagination, let me tell you. A vest reveals a slit of midriff stretched over his chest and a rosary dangles from his neck. He even has a _wig_--long blond hair skimming his shoulders. The only way I can recognize him at all is through his expressions (which always have a distinct "fuck-the-world" quality to them) and his voice (obviously deeper than it used to be, but I visited him, remember?).

I'm . . . pretty sure this is Mello . . . maybe, aliens? No, Bowser. It has to have been Bowser.

"Tell me where he took Prince Mello you impostor! I, Mario-Matt, will save him!"

Don't judge me. Mello hasn't for a while now.

"By 'he', I'm assuming you mean that giant turtle-thing if you also mentioned Mario?" He tugs me through the crowd to the foot of the stairs leading up to Winchester High and we sit down. This is Our Spot until 7:30 when the bells ring and we narrowly avoid a grisly death via stampede of our peers rushing to homeroom.

"Yeah. Bowser obviously kidnapped the real Mello and left this phony in his place. What the _hell _is with your clothes, Mello? And your hair? A wig? What's gotten into you?"

He turns to me, having avoided my eyes thus far. "This is who I feel like. On the inside, I mean, and I'm sick of not reflecting who I am on the outside."

"It doesn't--"

"_I know_ it doesn't matter, Matt. What I _don't_ know is why, in these clothes, in this body, I feel more like . . . _me. _I'm still Mello. I'm just, I dunno, _more _Mello than I was before." He sticks out a leather-clad leg and waves it in my face. "_This _leg is Mello's leg, not the leg that kicked you in the ribs last week."

"You know, I still have a bruise from that. Was it really necessary?"

"You took my _chocolate_, Matt." He deadpans.

"You broke my _gamecube controller_, Mello. That costs a lot more than a crappy chocolate bar."

"How about _twenty _chocolate bars? And Lindt chocolate isn't crappy, it's fucking expensive."

In case you haven't noticed, I'm eagerly seizing on this opportunity to change the subject. Banter? Easy. I can deal.

. . . Learning that the girl I've loved for years has always been a boy on the inside? A bit more difficult. I'd rather not deal, thank you very much.

Because then I start to wonder what loving someone really means. I'm _not _physically attracted to Mello anymore--I'm pretty sure I'd be able to tell, what with how, umm, _much _of him I can see. I guess by girls' or gay men's standards, yup: Mello's a hottie. My Mello; I'm proud . . . but I don't care at all. Possibly, though, can I still love him? As _more_ than a friend, even though he's a he?

'Cos, no offense or anything to the homosexual community, but that would be really fudging weird.

And yes, I censored for you. Feel special.

"Earth to Matty? Hel_looo_?" Oh. Mello's flapping his hand back and forth in front of my face. "Voices in your head distracting you again? I _told_ those men in the white coats not to bring you back yet, but did they listen?" He continues on a rant about my general sanity (or lack thereof).

Now see what you've done? Keep hanging around here and he'll really have cause to think I'm insane. Again, you're making me think too much. I dislike thinking.

I try to think of some sort of witty comeback but I'm distracted by the loud B-flat chime of the morning bell. Instinctively, Mello and I leap out of the way of the flock of nerds that swarm up the stairs, quickly followed by the football jocks, cheerleaders, miscellaneous loners, giggling gaggles of girls (isn't alliteration fun?), computer geeks, the Math Team, the hippies, and finally the Goths who slink, depressed, halfway up before giving up and collapsing in a heap listlessly.

Eventually, after the Future Washouts put out their cigarettes and stumble inside the front door, we peek out from behind the tree where we took cover and walk leisurely inside.

Now, you're probably wondering something along the lines of: "WTF Mellos a dude nau y dont they notis?" (my opinion of your intelligence isn't that low, don't worry; it's to make you _look_ stupid. You're not, really. Call it stylistic flair. I'm told I have a lot of that_...god_, I sound like a flaming queer. Not to be taken in a homophobic connotation, please.) Yeah, thing is, we have no friends. We're weird. Nobody knows us, nobody _wants_ to know us, so no one really notices us. Thank god we're in all the same classes or I'd go crazy from having nobody to talk to.

People keep trying to talk to _us_, though. Guys: _We don't like you. Go away._

. . . fine, we're antisocial as well as weird. We just don't like people. Screw it.

As these lovely thoughts have been bouncing their way along my neurons into your ears (eyes?), Mello has been getting some odd stares as we make our way to Homeroom. I guess people will tend to notice if anybody comes to school dressed as a stripper and glaring at everyone around them, not to mention coming to school as the opposite gender. It's only a matter of time before . . .

Well, look at that. We made it with nary a comment. I don't think anyone has even recognized Mello yet. Before take seats next to each other, Mello pulls me into a corner of the hallway and I can't do anything but exchange confused glances with him.

"Hey, Matt," he starts slowly.

"Yeah, Mells?" I ask, knowing where he's going.

"Correct me if I'm wrong . . . but I _am_ a guy, right? That _is_ clear?"

"Crystal."

"And I _have_ been a girl for the last fifteen years of my life?"

"Unless I've been hallucinating, yes."

He throws his hands into the air Mello-dramatically (geddit, like 'melodramatically'? Huh? Huh?) "So why doesn't anybody fucking _notice_?"

"I know as much as you do, Mello. One would think you'd at least have to be worried about hate crimes, or something. Maybe they're too afraid of you?"

"Or just don't have a clue who I am?"

"Well, your appearance isn't exactly what it used to be, and you don't have any chocolate . . . I don't know. Let's sit down." We mosey along into Homeroom, still discussing why people haven't said anything.

Because, seriously, the people here just love to hate. Mello's in for a rough time.

Oh, you have to _ask_ that? Of course I'll be supporting him! What the _hell_, guys? Am I that bad of a friend?

. . . actually, rereading the past few installments of this tale, I guess it seems like it--but, dudes, I _need_ Mello, okay? My life would have been a complete hell without her, and _will_ be the aforementioned hell without _him_. I don't care if the rest of the school hates us . . . But it seems like they, umm, don't even notice. Too weird.

Okay, here we go. Two juniors in another class are passing by the door; Touta Matsuda and Amane Misa. Rumor has it this is their third year trying to graduate to seniors (I hacked into the school records, and the rumor has it wrong: it's their fourth). Now they're chattering away about--well, I can't really tell. I don't speak Brainless (though I'm quite fluent in Clueless, judging by the past few days I've been speaking it).

Anyway, they catch a glimpse of Mello in the doorway and freeze. Everyone else in the class has been shooting covert glances at us, figuring out that the leather-clad stripper-esque male used to be a sweatpants-clad Mello-esque female, but nobody has said a word yet.

Misa, however, blurts out loudly, "Who's _that_? Misa thought Mello sat in that seat! Misa is Misa, what's your name?" She hops happily over to us as all conversation in the room flickers into nonexistence. Everyone is honed in on the four of us (Matsuda, though, is grinning happily and ignoring the rest of the world. I don't want to know).

Mello smirks as a decidedly evil glint enters into her eye. "Oh, I think we've met, Misa."

This will _not_ end well.

"I have to, erm, go. To the bathroom." I skedaddle. Don't judge me; Mello can take care of Misa perfectly fine by himself. If it were my prerogative, I'd wait for about ten minutes to be safe, but we need to be in Homeroom in five minutes. When I walk back in, Mello is smirking, Misa is sobbing, and Matsuda's jaw is grazing the tiled floor. See? He can handle these people perfectly fine. I smirk as they run off to their Homeroom.

The rest of our class, however, is not comprised of those with IQs under ninety. They're a tad cleverer in their love for hate. Nobody says anything now; you know, out loud and in a public area with too many witnesses, but judging by their expressions, Mello's not in for some happy next few months.

Urgh. I'd rather be playing a videogame right now. Do you mind if I switch on Super Mario (the GameBoy version, ftw!) in my head? I'm so bored, and Mello's finishing up some Bio homework that he didn't have time to work on over the weekend (yeah, spending an entire long weekend in a hospital must have kept him _really _busy). If only our Homeroom teacher was lenient, or blind, like our teacher last year, then I'd whip out one of several handhelds in my vest pockets before you could say -- well, some one-syllable word.

In any case, I just sing the Mario theme in my head (doo-doo-doo, doo-doo-_doo_!--doo--dii, da, dii...) until the bell signalling our first class chimes throughout the halls. Together, Mello and I stand up and exchange a look, effectively breaking the comfortable silence that has hung on an old hammock between us. English, next, where we have to face the world.

--

**I replied to your loverdoverly reviews, right? *is posting this at midnight and is not very coherent* If I didn't, just drop a line, because I've read every word of your comments about four times. Sadly . . . I'm not joking. You guys deserve to know how much I love you :)  
The long updates are due to Nanowrimo (national novel writing month), school, and a (limited) social life. I'm sorry those exist....**


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